Four Times
by brightnightwriter
Summary: Four times Lennox hooked up with Hallie. One-shot, Lennox/O.C, Please give it a shot!


**'Ello all! This is my first Transformers story, and its more of a one-shot. It centers around Lennox/O.C, and its not _that _explanatory. Its more of a piece that would go with a story idea I came up with for a Lennox/O.C story, so if y'all want me to continue I just might... Anyway, this also references Iron Man, so yeah. haha. Enjoy, Review, and feel free to PM me any questions/concerns/comments. BTW, I took a few liberties. Added in Sunny at the end, and Lennox isn't cheating on Sarah, because they're not together... uh, yeah. lol. O.C: Hallie **

**I obviously don't own. **

* * *

The first time they hook up, she isn't quite at all sure what they're doing. They most clearly don't like each other, can barely stand to be in the same room, much less keep a civil conversation. Although, if she's being honest with herself—something she likes to think she is often—there is nothing civil in the way that their bodies are pressed against each other and as lips move in sync. Her arms are locked around his neck, and he's so tall he's hunched over her as his own hands move into her hair, pulling out the elastic that's keep her dark brown hair into a pony tail until its cascading down her back and his fingers are running through it. They're in a supply closet at N.E.S.T, and it's only the sound of the turning doorknob that makes them jump apart, breathing ragged. But fortune seems to be smiling upon them, because a second later a voice greets whomever was about to open the supply door, and the two would-be-intruders walk away discussing the newest arrival of sesame bagels in the N.E.S.T commissary, and the esteemed Colonel Lennox isn't discovered in the middle of a steamy make-out session with the adopted daughter, niece, whatever, of a famous billionaire playboy philanthropist who he's never publicly gotten along with (The girl, because he's never had the pleasure/displeasure of meeting the playboy billionaire philanthropist).They don't look at each other as he straightens out his uniform, she her AC/DC shirt, or how they even got into the supply closet in the first class. The next time they speak to each other, it's with even more vehemence than usual.

.

The second time they hook up, she's pissed as hell. They're captured by some 'Cons and she's angry and irritated, and most of these emotions are aimed at him, but somehow she can't find it within herself to push him away even as he peppers her neck with hot kisses. She's hardly conscious of the fact that her legs are wrapping around his torso, pulling him closer. She's lost as to why her hands are on the back of his neck, fingering his short hair, pulling his mouth back up to meet hers. And as their lips clash together, tongues dancing around each other—she decides it's the uniform. She's always believed that uniforms add hotness points, and that's all she's really attracted too, really. And it doesn't exactly deter her that he's a fabulous kisser. She can remember to not like him in another five minutes, but then he starts sucking on her bottom lip.

Make that another ten.

.

The third time they hook up she chalks it up to the fact that no matter how irritating and infuriating of a man he is, she's not blind. She figures that she really can't help herself, not when he's in dark faded jeans, a white t-shirt that's just the right amount of tight across his chest, and a black leather jacket that's as dark as his aviator glasses. She can't help that this time _she's_ the one who is pressing _his_ tall frame against the wall and pulling his face down to meet hers as her hands roam under his t-shirt and over his cut figure. She really can't.

.

The fourth time they hook up she starts to think that this is getting slightly ridiculous. Ridiculous because she can't account it to a crime of passion, a this-is-because-we-could-get-brutally-tortured-or-killed-at-any-moment kind of thing, either, ridiculous because he's not for the first time out of uniform. No, it's ridiculous because they're having a conversation, _together_, the two of them, and it's one hundred percent civil. Hell, they're freaking_ laughing _with each other, hands occasionally grazing the other's arm. They're all—Epps, Sam and Carly, Simmons, the Bots, and others— in one room, hanger, actually, and they've all got a cup alcohol in hand, and they're celebrating. The 'Cons are dead (most of 'em), the Autobots and humans have won (for now), and the Earth is saved (also for now). In fact, everyone else in the room is quite certain that the Apocalypse should be upon them, seeing as Lennox and Hallie are _laughing together and sharing polite conversation_. But it's not, and they are. The we-survived-yet-another-alien-attack party wraps up unsurprisingly early as everyone heads back home to sleep, sleep that for the first time in days won't be with one eye open and one hand on a pistol. Well except for Ironhide. He's always cautious (a.k.a. looking for an excuse to blow shit up). It also doesn't help that Sides and Sunny have managed to become more than tipsy off of spike Energon, and their staggered walking has nearly crushed at least half of the attendees, and so everyone calls it quits. Bumblebee takes lovebirds Sam and Carly home, Epps and his boys return home, and even Simmons manages to roll away on his wheelchair with a certain Charlotte Mearing on his lap, escorted by Dutch of course.

So hardly anyone is aware of the fact that Lennox leans over and quietly invites Hallie over to his apartment for _just one more drink_, and if they were, they'd be most surprised by her agreement. They both pile into Hide's alt form, and the GMC Topkick drives them to Will's place without comment.

Lennox is quick to uncap two beers and ease onto his couch, holding one up for Hallie. She makes herself comfortable so that she's about a foot away on the couch, feet tucked underneath her as she listens to a funny incident that involves an embarrassed Hide and a triumphant Sides. She's laughing at him, and she doesn't really notice that they somehow end up closer through their conversations until they're pressed up against each other and his voice is husky as she looks up at him through hooded eyes. Neither is nowhere tipsy enough—not to mention drunk enough—not to know what they're doing. And as their lips come together, this time is different. Different because they're not angry with each other, different because this is all pleasure and not conflicting feelings.

Those can come in the morning.

This time isn't a rough make out session in a closet or in an empty lab or enemy camp. This time their clothes are strewn all over his apartment as they stumble towards his bedroom. The next few hours are a flurry of passion, heat, and sweat as they unleash their lust against each other. Her cheeks are flushed an attractive red and her voice is breathy when she says his name, and his grip is comfortably tight, firm, as he holds her.

.

Hallie wakes up first, and she's slightly dismayed to find that she's in his arms. He's still asleep, and by an early dawn light she can see his features perfectly. She twists around slowly so that she's on his stomach and his arm is now carelessly, affectionately, thrown over her back. He looks peaceful, and her eyes drink in the contours of his face, the strong jaw line, the lines of his nose. Even though his eyes are closed, she can imagine his brown eyes. The sheets are pooled at their torsos, and she has to stop herself from running her fingers over his tight abdominals. She closes her eyes for a moment, and then opens them again with a nearly silent sigh as she begins to carefully shimmy out of his arms. She checks to see if he's still asleep and is relieved when all he does is roll over onto his side. Light on her feet she flits around the room, donning her clothes as she finds them. She finds her shirt on the lamp in the living room and her shoes in the hallway. As she walks over to the door she catches sight of a note block, pen poised beside it. It's the kind of pen that just promises to run smooth and seamlessly, and its practically inviting her to just leave a note for the colonel who's house she is fleeing from somewhere around six in the morning. But she doesn't, and when the door clicks shut behind her, she wonders if she's made a mistake she'll live to regret. She's in her dark denim jeans, black combat boots and Metallica T-shirt and walking away from his apartment. She flicks her silver aviators down over her eyes and then pulls her phone out of her pocket. She dials a number and brings the phone to her ear. Sideswipe answers on the second ring, and she asks him to pick her up. When he does a few blocks over, he doesn't comment or make a joke. For once he is silent, and so is she. And when she asks him to stop by her room at N.E.S.T, he knows it's only to pack up her bags. Had he not been in his alt form, his shoulders would have drooped and his optics would have darkened. She asks to be taken to the airport, but he refuses. He manages to convince her to let him drive her to New York, and she agrees. He thinks it's only because if she declines one more time, she'll break and tears will run free. And so they drive in a fragile companionable silence, and he knows that not even her favorite heavy metal bands will lighten her mood.

.


End file.
